


we've got a war to fight (never find our way)

by nominormiracle



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fix it...sort of, No [redacted] death lmao, Season Three Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-10 17:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20139007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nominormiracle/pseuds/nominormiracle
Summary: A Charlotte/Isabella focused rewrite of Season 3 of Harlots in Charlotte's POV. Obviously undoing the mortal sin this show has committed (won't say what that is here). Spoiler alerts for Season 3.





	1. I run a house (and I’m still running)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, she’s gone. I’m planning to write my way out of the muck. Starting now, I’ll be rewriting this season episode by episode and also removing/adding anything I want. I’ll still be writing “when you love from that same hour (your peace you put in your lover’s power)” and I’m so glad I made a post-S2 story cause this really sucks. But think of this as an accompaniment and salve for those of us who will continue to watch season three... It makes me sad that the few people who do write for Isabella & Charlotte are bowing out but it’s understandable. Hope that some of you will come around and still have a good time with what these characters once were and the potential they had! xoxo

There were three core parts to Charlotte Wells’ new daily routine. Namely and in succession they were: rise early and weigh the books, wake the girls and welcome the culls, and spend each night alone in her mother’s old bedroom, listening for any disturbances in the rooms above her. The monotony of her days rendered her mind dull and her attention foggy, the days endlessly slipping on. When left to her thoughts, they wandered raggedly, dragging up the few fond memories she had of Ma like stones from the bottom of a well. 

With more girls than ever under her tutelage, the house on Greek Street was rarely quiet. Invoking her expertise, Charlotte taught her new girls how to dress, walk, talk, and (at least, hypothetically) fuck like the best of the best that London had to offer. All the while, she felt herself a pale shadow, fading into the walls as a mimicry of vibrance carried on around her. 

Though loathe to admit it even to Lucy or her Pa, she was lonely in her new station. Pa spent weeks away at a time from the house, taking Jacob with him on boxing tours and Lucy flitted from cull to wealthier cull, rarely spending a night in the house. She heard more  _ of _ her sister than spoke  _ to _ her. The city papers rarely missed an opportunity to cover the exploits of Lucy Wells, the shooting star of London’s firmament. 

The two girls had been thick as thieves once, playing their childhood games in the muck-ridden streets of Covent Garden while tavern harlots beckoned from the doorways of the bars their Pa frequented. It was the opposite of an idyllic youth, but Charlotte couldn’t help but yearn for those dull years when Margaret hadn’t any prospects beyond the few girls the house could afford. Before Greek Street and Lydia’s return that came on like a rash last year. Even before her own entry into the trade. 

Though Charlotte could not recall the walls of Golden Square before her time there last year, she knew for a fact that she was born in that house. According to Ma, Nancy and Margaret had carried on their forced servitude while she babbled away in a corner, teething one of Lydia’s fine golden combs. She’d stared up at that face as an infant, perhaps knew it before she knew her own, and Charlotte liked to imagine some spark of her own personal hatred lay within that first gaze. Yes, she’d been born in Golden Square - and very nearly thought she’d die there last year. When her hands were around Lydia’s neck, turning her powdered face the faintest blue, did Lydia see the eyes of the same child who had crawled her halls, the toddler who cried in a dark room where four other girls - some kind, some not - slept… all the while wondering where her mother might be and whether she would ever come back each night? 

When Charlotte was just four years old, as the family myth goes, Nancy and Margaret stole away with her in the middle of the night - with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. She’d heard parts two and three over and over again: how Lydia stalked them for months on end, further kicking up the tension by sending constables and dangerous culls into Ma’s home as would-be assassins of character or otherwise. There was just one moment, however brief, where Nancy and Margaret appeared to have the upper hand: they arranged a raid of Golden Square and what the lawmen found there was a girl kidnapped from her family by Lydia and being held against her will. 

Lydia was lashed publically in Charing Cross Square. Charlotte had seen the ropy scars on her back and, despite herself, had a moment of empathy before shoving the sentiment as far down as one could. Quigley was a viper, a venomous cunt with nothing more than bile in her words. And yet, Charlotte could not help the tears that had formed in her eyes for the old witch. But Lydia was a bawd and the worst kind as her own mother (another bawd, a not much better kind) so often reminded her. While Lucy had played with her few toys, went to harpsichord lessons, and messed about with Pa, Charlotte had been tasked with helping her mother maintain their humble home. Ma would do the books while Charlotte cleaned up in the mornings. And the girls from then - where were they now? Charlotte knew that two had gone the way of the pox. Another had fallen pregnant and chose her child over her trade. Anne, a girl who had then seemed so very grown, but who Charlotte now realized would’ve been perhaps 16, did well enough and married out of the trade. These women who had silently populated Charlotte’s life, like distant figures in a wide-spanning landscape, their features now indiscriminate to her, they’d been witness to Margaret’s so-called lessons. 

Mags told Charlotte of her struggle to transition from harlot to bawd, about how the influx of money had changed their lives. Always for the better. “We’re moving up in the world, Charlotte. I’ll be sure of securing that for you and Lucy before I’m gone to the morgue.” Despite her reservations, Margaret always had some perverse passion for the job. Some part of her, however reluctant, enjoyed the work, enjoyed the slog of pimping out other girls and shaving off a piece of their hard-won earnings. Charlotte ignored this side of her Ma as a child, could still pretend then that her mother’s ambition was indicative of virtue. She was young then and a girl’s mother was always right. 

Then, she turned twelve. Unlike Lucy, who’d taken the delay in her own auction for granted, Charlotte knew her own fate would come early as feasibly possible. The family had again fallen on hard times. Trade in the city was dismal at best - the war waged against the colonies was draining parliament, the crown, and by extension, the entire country. Men had less pocket change and fervor for their girls than they might have in prosperous times. It was the quietest the house had ever been that year and Charlotte had sat in the parlor on the chaise every day just watching people walk by beyond the windows. But that peace borne of bad business was not to last. Soon after her birthday, her mother spread word of an auction for her maidenhead. Ma said it was to keep a roof over their heads - that Charlotte’s virginity could pay near half a year’s rent if she was presented just so. And it was not like Lucy’s, not something so reserved and oddly private as a night at the opera. 

She remembered the way Lucy had cried that night, the fear in her sister’s eyes as men whispered in Margaret’s ear their bids. It was a shock for the girl because Lucy had always been the favorite in their mother’s eyes. Even so, it was never something she held against the girl and considering all that had transpired with Lord Fallon and George in the meantime, it was difficult to conjure even the memory of the jealous pang. 

Charlotte’s introduction to high society had been less harried than Lucy’s and long-planned by her Ma. It was at the Summer’s masquerade ball. Margaret bribed their way in through a magistrate, a former cull with a taste for post-coital coddling, who she threatened with public humiliation if he could not fulfil his promise to get Charlotte’s name out to the genteel male masses of London. In the weeks before that night, Ma’d dragged her from one gentlemen’s club to the next, sitting her at betting tables as she falsely sung her daughter’s praises: “Oh, my daughter’s wit would astound even the most studied of suitors” or “She walks as though there’s naught but air beneath her feet.” Utter tripe. Charlotte was twelve and stomped more than glided. Her wit was mostly reserved for Lucy who was only seven at the time and it mostly consisted of snide remarks made behind Margaret’s back. 

Yes, there had been something of an education. A few tutors who’d come in and out of Charlotte’s life depending on the family finances. She could read and write. She had some taste in theater. More importantly, she knew well what was popular among the high-vaulted groups of men her mother coveted. And what was not. From childhood, she knew this to be her fate: the transformation, however unwilling, into whatever these men might desire. Then, she would have wealth, conditional though it may be. A rich man who would repay her attentions with jewels, gowns, and fine parties. It was not happiness, certainly no semblance of love, but it would be a way out from under Margaret’s thumb. And at age twelve, that was enough of a goal to keep Charlotte afloat. 

Party after party, lonely nights kept in the sickliest of companies. Ma’s hand pulling her down dark cobbled streets when she’d rather be asleep, or anywhere else really. Then, the night came more or less fateful than any other. Ma held a kind of court at one of the tables, far enough from the hosts and their string orchestra, so that men might stumble along to play their hand at Charlotte’s virginity. She knew she was beautiful and that made up for her savage tongue, the bile she bit back as each wigged would-be devil made his bid. When it came down to it, it was a flabby monster, Lord Repton, who sweat like a pig under the outdoor torch lighting. His wife had a sharp face, a kind of lasciviousness about her that made Charlotte even more uncomfortable. But this was why she’d been born, a fate as inescapable as death for a girl like her, and so she took Lord Repton’s hand at night’s end and got in his carriage back to St. James’s. 

He was not particularly cruel though he was both peculiar and particular. He and his wife, well-fed and evidently bored by their wealth, had a strange set of rituals that Charlotte came to know well. For the next two years, she shuttled between their house in St. James’s and Covent Garden. In that time, Jacob was born and Pa became more than just her mother’s loyalest friend. He became a part of the family. The money garnered from Charlotte’s work buoyed the roster of girls her mother could afford to take on. That’s when she met Kitty Carter and Emily Lacey and even Fanny, all of whom were roughly her age and unrepentantly jealous that she had found herself such a lucrative arrangement with two old, noble fools. What they did not know was the tedium of her new life. Party after party, this time on her own, left to galavant with empty-headed lords and ladies who sneered at her until they discovered her talent for this or that. She was both whore and entertainment and what they expected of her, she became. 

Further and further disjointed from the quiet but headstrong girl she had been, who kicked rocks at the rude culls in her mother’s home, who swore at age seven she would never enter the trade, who ran away from home (twice) only to be found at Nancy’s doorstep the next day scared and alone. Scared and alone were two unrecognized luxuries she let fall by the wayside. More years passed and the Reptons grew tired of her increasing experience and ripening figure. But they gave her their blessing and boasted her talents to their social circle. 

For awhile, Charlotte bounced from cull to cull, never settling on any one given keeper. She kept close to her Ma, despite reservations, but that would change when she turned 20. A young and petulant baronet named Sir George Howard had apparently noticed her at a number of parties and was irate that she had not noticed him back. Churlish and sycophantic, he was exactly the last kind of man Charlotte wanted to be around, cull or not. And yet, he had discovered where she came from, who her mother was, and in some mockery of a man asking a girl’s parents for her hand in marriage, he went one day to Margaret offering 300 pounds a year to be her keeper. 

So much had changed and yet so little. She was still under her mother’s thumb despite the newly found independence she’d gained. And so it was that she would sign George’s contract. She moved into  _ his _ house in St. James’s and he showered her with empty praise and the colorful gowns she’d dreamed of. His star would never rise in Parliament - of that she was sure. But his fruitful marriage to Lady Caroline ensured a sizeable allowance that he was all too happy to spend on Charlotte on the condition that she would entertain his every pathetic whim - in and out of the bedroom. He bought her time to make himself appear more manly but his perpetual insecurity quickly wore her thin. She would not sign his poxy contract. And that last bit of herself, which she refused to give away, would be the unraveling of the months to follow. 

She’d once sought respite from her own mother and now she very well had it. Ma had been gone a year and in that year much had changed. Sometimes, in the dead of night when she couldn’t sleep, Charlotte would ruminate on how she and Margaret had traded places of sorts. What she had wanted was freedom and the only true offer ever given to her had been Daniel Marney’s escape to America.

That spectre of freedom is what she once chased, in any form. First her own, then that of her sister, the shackled and abused girls at Quigley’s mercy, even Isabella. And each time she had failed in some way. Her sister was not truly free, bogged down by harlotry in a way that even Charlotte could not comprehend. The Spartans had not been vanquished, silent as they may have been in the last year. She was sure they merely slumbered and would soon procure themselves a new procuress, one who would fulfill their needs just as Lydia had. The one success, perhaps, had come at a cost to her own: Isabella now lived on her own with her fortune in St. James’s and her daughter Sophia posing as her ward. 

In the months following Margaret’s departure, Charlotte had been so angry with Isabella that her repeated letters - apologizing, explaining, begging - prompted only terse replies from Charlotte. She’d begrudgingly answered them - if only so that Isabella would not come knocking at her door. She had cooled in the weeks and months following Isabella’s betrayal, but some sliver of her lingered on that failure. Those months in Lydia’s house… what had been the point of it all? Yes, they’d brought her down, but that hadn’t been Isabella’s doing at all. It was that dolt Charles finally realizing the monstrosity that had reared and coddled him. It was a kind of justice borne of chance more than Charlotte’s not-so-careful planning. Lydia’s own suckling pig had been her downfall and now there was a kind of strange void left where her and Margaret’s feud had been. 

It was not a bad absence, to be sure, and though Charlotte missed her Ma there was a part of her who was grateful for the near-peace her and Lydia’s departures brought. In establishing her house, Charlotte had a distraction from the few ripples that Isabella’s damned letters made. Theirs were separate worlds, as they must be, especially now that Charlotte had ceased her flitting about the nobility seeking a wealthy keeper. Though rich men came through her front door in search of heavenly respite, she herself was no longer a part of their world. In the past year, she had not entertained a cull or even a fleeting fuck. She’d adorned responsibility like a crown for a time before it became mere armor and, finally, it’s own kind of noose. 

The wit and beauty, however put on, that she’d cultivated for years gathered its own layer of dust on the fringes of her mind. She felt herself less sharp, less attentive to even the minor beauties that filled her days: baby Kitty’s murmurs from Fanny’s room each morning, lonely strolls in the park. Lucy had once asked...  _ What drives you Charlotte _ ? And she thought she’d known then. She’d wanted to make a corner of the world right if it were within her little power to do so. Lofty dreams of justice were very well left to the past. Now she counted coins, bought her girls the best gowns she could afford, spent silent stretches of time thinking of nothing and nobody. Still, there were good times to be had: the camaraderie of Fanny and Lucy and Pa when he wasn’t off on a boxing tour. Nancy now lived in the house and - in spite of her reputation for flagellation - was more nurturing and attentive than Mags had ever been. 

And so it was: the empty pursuit of money and every penny of it put back into the house. Greek Street was hers and she even had enough spare change to hire a floating staff to come in and cook, clean, and dress the girls each day. Every floorboard and beam seemed a part of Charlotte’s very flesh. No longer a woman blown on the breeze, but a home for others to seek safety and shelter. It was not a role she ever expected, but one she eased into well enough. 

Always, another mask. Being a bawd, what should’ve proven to be the most honest and selfless venture of her adult life, was just another veneer - though one decidedly less glamorous and dangerous. Still, lawmen and murderous lords hounded her waking nightmares. So too did those that she’d lost in some way or another: George, Daniel, Ma, the young girl Abigail - disappeared into the night, and Isabella who was lost to her in an entirely different way. Isabella - who was not lost to her, not really - was a reminder of her failures, the multitude of her sins that went unanswered for and stuck like pesky splinters in her palms. 

It was the thought of Isabella that brought her back to the present qualm at hand. Another letter arrived, this one requesting they meet face to face. It was short and without Isabella’s usually poetic hand. Less reverent of whatever their friendship had been and more intriguing for its enduring blanks. The lady wrote of a dilemma: her few friends of high standing, the ones who had looked the other way as she left her brother’s home and control, were beginning to openly resent the courtesans that entertained their husbands at all hours of the day and night. Charlotte could think of nothing less threatening than the mutiny of fine ladies, but Isabella saw their distress as a real threat to her and her girls, as well as the wider network of harlots working in the city. 

Over the past year, Charlotte had taken the opposite approach to Margaret in her dealings with the other houses. She and her girls had an especially close friendship with Harriet’s girls as well as connections with a few houses of both higher and lower standing. Greek Street’s reputation (and, by extension, Charlotte’s) lie somewhere in the middle ranks. Charlotte had indeed herself been a star of London, a courtesan of some true standing - and now Lucy had taken over that post. But as a bawd, her house was notorious for a roiling good time. None of the pretensions of Golden Square. But certainly a steep step above the tavern girls. Wealthy men came to them for their cheap wit and, most importantly, how different they were to their tedious wives. 

Charlotte sighed and drew the latest letter once more from the drawer of her writing desk. Just last week, one of her girls - Katherine - had been caught cavorting openly with a baronet at the Pleasure Gardens. There’d been something of a verbal tustle between Mary and the baronet’s wife - and the next day the press had falsely reported that Katherine carried an itch of the loin. She hadn’t heard from her cull since, which was bad for her spirits but mostly for Charlotte’s business. She couldn’t have false rumors spreading about her house. Therefore, for the first time in a year, Charlotte was tempted to take Isabella up on this offer. 

Isabella called it a dialogue, one that would start with her and Charlotte and that she would then open up to friends at a prospective salon. But first, Charlotte and Isabella would need to speak face to face. Charlotte smoothed a hand over the blank parchment on her desk, hesitating a moment, before confirming in ink that she would come to Isabella’s new house in St. James’s to discuss the salon. 

It was once a neighborhood she frequented and, she realized as she looked own at Isabella’s exact address, only minutes away from Sir George’s residence and that of the Reptons. Isabella’s house was on a quiet corner of the square where the streets were most peaceful and well-swept. Charlotte figured it was one of the largest houses in St. James’s and she wasn’t surprised. The Blayne estate had been the most impressive house she’d ever visited and even its city-locked counterpart must be as lavish to match. 

She finished the short missive and sent it off to Isabella who had offered to have her carriage come to pick her up first thing tomorrow morning. 

* * *

The house was white-washed, pristine as the stones that paved its entry path. Isabella’s carriage was a deep, dark wood with yellow painted trimming and the footmen were both silent and courteous, though one gave Charlotte a strange look of disdain as he lent his hand to her upon arrival. Another footman tended to Isabella’s door and led her into the foyer. Whatever Charlotte had been expecting, it was not this. The Blayne estate had been audacious and cavernous in its decorative aspirations, every bit a reflection of the beast that haunted its halls. Charlotte had imagined this house to be its miniature in every way.

But she had been wrong. Perhaps, Isabella had made some adjustments to the decor or perhaps Harcourt had not put his wretched touch upon these walls, but the mansion was undoubtedly feminine. Despite its high, vaulted ceilings and the marble pillars that lined the entryways to its separate rooms, the house felt oddly comfortable. The walls were a deep soothing green. Long, red velvet drapes lined windows and alcoves alike. Busts and statues of purest, white marble also sat in every corner. It was all very tasteful, Charlotte had to admit. And part of her wondered whether this was Isabella’s true style. She’d associated the lady, however abhorrently, with the pale gold that had so entrapped her under her brother’s thumb. This was colorful, vibrant. And lively. A home prepared to entice visitors rather than demand their presence. 

The older footman brought her to what she surmised to be the parlor. This room had painted flowers and green vines wending their way around window sills and portraits. Charlotte noted a painting of a young maid with a dove just about to lift off from her finger. Another was a pastoral scene, idyllic farmers spotting the horizon of a wide, blue sky. Several low couches and chairs, plushly upholstered, were dotted around the room. Charlotte took a seat in one of the chairs and waited for her ladyship to arrive. 

When she’d last seen Isabella, face to face, she’d been rumpled and worn thin in her one gold gown. Weighed down by both the heavy fabric and the abduction of her newly found daughter, Isabella’s beauty had been diminished, just a little, by the misery of those days. Somehow, despite her observations of Isabella’s home, she expected the lady to come through the door with that same hair style, pearls and gold jewels, and the heavy bronzed fabrics that she so associated with her. What met her gaze when Isabella swanned through the door was the opposite. She wore a pink gown so deep in color that it bordered on vermillion. It’s lining was a subtle, finely stitched cerulean and little jeweled beads glittered on the stomacher. 

Charlotte’s first thought was that she looked beautiful. There was a new airiness about the lady that had not been there before - some light that had been nearly snuffed out by her brother’s abuse. She herself, Charlotte knew, did not look the same as when she was in Lydia’s house and as their eyes met, she could see Isabella taking stock of her new look. No longer the perfectly cascading curls with the pale blues and purples that she’d worn in Golden Square. Charlotte had taken on an unusual style: something entirely her own. Her hair was more casual with her natural curl and frizz left in. She wore gowns in two pieces, deep burgundies, silvers, and earth tones that she would have avoided during her courtesan days. It made her feel grown, centered, and independent. 

This change in her own countenance registered as a brief shock to Isabella. She could see her ladyship pause in the entryway to look for a moment longer than necessary and, to Charlotte’s shock and gratification, Isabella directed at her a look that she’d only seen - once or twice - in the time she’d known her and never this unabashedly. It was clear the lady did, indeed, enjoy her new look. Her lips parted slightly and her gaze, which once upon a time would’ve fallen out of shame or shyness, stayed the course, wandering from Charlotte crossed ankles slowly back up to her face, before meeting her own eyes in a stare that seemed to say  _ you are not as I remember you, but I am glad to see you all the same _ . 

They were both changed and in more than looks. That much was clear from the moment of silence that hung between them before Isabella took the seat opposite hers. A maid came in with a tray of tea and cake before leaving the two women alone. 

“I’m glad you came,” Isabella said at last. Despite herself, Charlotte smiled.

“I figured it was about time I called upon the lady of the house once again.”

The corner of Isabella’s mouth turned up. “There’s no longer a man of the house to be spoken of. Not here. Not anymore.” If she expected some glowering darkness to loom over the lady, some reference to her wretched brother, it did not come. Isabella was joking and Charlotte recognized the humor for what it was. The tiniest reference, however benign, to what they had so briefly been to one another. Bedmates. And friends. 

Resisting the urge to laugh, Charlotte merely turned to her steaming cuppa, ignoring the innuendo Isabella so plainly presented before her. In the year that had elapsed, the lady had grown bold and borderline provocative. That much was clear in her taste for decor, dress, and her open flaunting of their previous affair. Not to mention her embrace of Sophia (even under the guise of the girl being her ward) and that initial break from her brother. Charlotte could not pretend that some part of her relished the change, but she longed for the curiously guarded woman she’d first met under the worst of circumstances last year. Could all of that pain and sadness be so quickly submerged? Charlotte knew she kept her own aches under lock and key where they remained still and would not disappear despite the levity of her new life. 

Perhaps mistaking her reverie for awkwardness, Isabella pushed onward. “Is all well with you? Or rather, as well as could be considering…” She trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with her role in the dissolution of Charlotte’s plot. 

Charlotte deflected. “With Ma gone, Lucy and I have had to adjust to our new roles. I run the house and she runs the town. Pa and Nancy help one where they can, but otherwise it’s on me to make keep the place afloat.” 

Isabella leaned forward on the swell on her gown, resting her hands on her own knees in a display for some shy eagerness. “I know you would never ask for assistance. But you know, if you ever needed help with finances, I have something of a fortune to spend now. And I would be glad to spend it on you even if just to make up for past wrongs.” 

Charlotte snorted. “It’s nothing, forgotten. In the past.” Only the last thing was true, but if their new partnership were to forge onward, she had to let Isabella’s decision lie. Isabella searched her face for something that she seemed unlikely to find. 

“You once offered me friendship, but I have not always been a very good friend to you.” Isabella cast her eyes down to her lap. It was the closest thing to an apology Charlotte would allow and she accepted it as readily as she did the cup of tea. She was nothing if not forgiving, sometimes against her better judgment. 

“I would extend that offer again. Though, from what the rags have to say of your new reputation, you might not be needing my company.” Isabella had the wherewithal to look shy a moment. “I should like to see more of you. My new friends are fine enough company, but their wit and charm is no match for yours.” She felt a sliver of surprise at Isabella’s forwardness, but also a shock of something else: a warmth from the compliment that glowed like an ember in her chest. Charlotte needed to put a stop to this sentiment before it overtook her purpose in visiting altogether. How it would do that exactly was something she chose not to dwell on. 

“Very well, if you'd like. But, for now, there is the matter at hand. My girl, Katherine, is in fits of tears and tantrums as of late because of your friend’s loose, lying tongue,” Charlotte said. 

Isabella laughed. “Helena is hardly my friend. You’re right. She makes quite the spectacle of a useless, petty lie. She’s jealous of her husband’s attention straying to your girl and will stop at nothing to make everyone quite miserable in the process of bringing her down.” 

“How do you propose to rectify the situation?” 

“I’ve taken, as late, to hosting salons for a small group of fellow women here on a monthly basis. It’s a pleasure to put the long toiling tutoring from my childhood to some use. These women, they’re prejudiced as I was… or am… or am trying  _ not _ to be any longer. But they do have the capability for critical thought if forced into it.” Isabella drew breath, “We might open up a discussion on how to better establish harmony between wives and courtesans. And who better than you to bridge that gap?” 

Charlotte thought it a lofty prospect, unrealistic and - frankly - not in her business’ best interest. Men came to them to escape their marriages and shelve their responsibilities to their wives, not find themselves in a menage-a-trois of their own undoing. But the lady was eager and forthright and she wanted to provoke positive change and, most affectingly, do something that might help Charlotte. That forgiving part of Charlotte took control and she found herself agreeing to the ill-fated soiree. 

Pleased beyond measure, she and Isabella passed some time talking about Sophia and Jacob and Lucy before Charlotte drew back from the camaraderie, wary of it. Some hours had passed and while Greek Street at this point could run itself, she feigned business to attend to. If the lady was disappointed to see her go, she did not demand that Charlotte stay. They would have the salon on Saturday night with Charlotte in attendance to represent the “harlotry bloc” as Isabella referred to it. With a chuckle, Charlotte agreed to come and took her leave on foot. 

* * *

Saturday night, the white walls of Isabella’s parlor were imbued with gold hues as numerous lamps, candelabras, and the roaring fireplace shone on the nervous faces of five or so aristocratic women. Everything about them, from their overly powdered wigs to their dresses of dull golds and blues screamed of a certain upbringing. They held themselves so stiffly that Charlotte was reminded of one of her mother’s many witticisms:  _ Rich women are not like rich men who carry their coinage in the loose pouch between their legs. Rich women carry it in a rod that runs from their arse up to their eyeballs. That’s why you’ll never seen one bent over _ . 

Charlotte thought her mother might be right in this case. Noblewomen clung to formality in a way their husbands need not bother to. Perhaps, they needed the decorum more than their men who - after all - could move through the world like a fire blazing anything in its path. Their wives were trapped in their own way - by the very things that spoiled them and made them soft. She’d learned this with Isabella and somehow it had made her more sympathetic to the lady, not less. But, she thought, there was something to Isabella’s entrapment that singularly spoke to her heart despite all their differences. The guarded chilliness of these ladies did nothing to provoke the same feeling now.

The house staff served dessert wine and small bites of food that hardly anyone partook in. Isabella seemed nervous and every few minutes or so she would glance at Charlotte who was being obviously excluded from the overly polite small talk taking place. Seeming to tire of the aimlessness at hand, Isabella clapped once to get the attention of the room. 

She proceeded to introduce Charlotte as though she were fresh off a boat from the colonies, just stepping foot in London, and not a notorious name already known to every woman here. From there, each noblewoman made her case for the issue at hand. The woman in question, Lady Helena, proved cautious when faced with an actual courtesan-turned-bawd in front of her. But it was Isabella’s other friend, Lady Leadsom, who took charge of the verbal lashing. She lambasted the entire industry of harlotry, calling it a degradation of the institution of marriage and that it was part of how their present society was tearing itself apart. 

Her speech was like white noise to Charlotte who focused her attention instead on Isabella who by the second was looking more and more irritated with this woman she considered to be, at the very least, a reliable companion at society outings. As if Isabella could feel Charlotte’s stare, she turned her gaze to the younger woman. Charlotte smirked, eyes softening against her will, and for a moment it felt like just her and Isabella in the room - two people once again on the same side of a different dilemma. Though, this once was certainly less dangerous and more of a shared nuisance than anything else. 

When at last Lady Leadsom ceased her tirade, Charlotte calmly responded: “If your position was ordained by birth then so was mine. How would you have me, in the position I’m in, remedy the situation? We do not enter your homes unless contractually obliged. Your men come to us for whatever reasons, amoral or not, they so desire. Unlike you, we must make our way in the world without inheritance. How else would you propose we survive?” 

“A marriage, of course, is the natural path. Though, I doubt duty to a husband would suit your particular wit and skill Ms. Wells. But it is something your girls might consider just as we all have.” Charlotte looked again at Isabella who appeared aghast at being included in that group. She thought she ought to be offended by the Lady’s words, but she had never wanted a marriage. And from Isabella’s expression, the thought of a husband so displeased her as well.

“Our men seek to keep wives and courtesans apart. I thought some discourse between us might be of use,” she said resolutely, glancing at Charlotte all the time as if hoping for some approval. Lady Leadsom sneered. 

“In truth, I only came to this salon - if you can even call it that - to see whether this is the whore who’s been at my husband’s ear for the past months, ruining him and our finances.” Now genuinely offended, Charlotte regained her repose and leaned back against the upholstered chair. 

“I’m a bawd now. I run a house. There’s hardly a man in my bed.” 

At this, Charlotte caught from the corner of her eye the smallest smile on Isabella’s lips. If she hadn’t had confirmation that the lady was still open to their once-temporary arrangement, she had it now. It was, indeed, no marriage that Isabella was after. 

“So you live off the flesh of others,” Lady Leadsom accused.

Charlotte continued, “Girls come to me from the street. I offer them income. Safety”

Isabella gently interjected: “They’ve been ruined by poverty. Not by Ms. Wells. And there’s more that we can do for them.”

Lady Leadsom’s brows raised, appalled: “You’d have us offer charity to whores?” 

Charlotte had had enough. She stood up, wiping her hands frustratedly down the front of her skirt. “I knew your minds would be small.” Striding out of the room, she already felt Isabella’s presence behind her every step of the way.

“We’ll break through their prejudice. I know it.” Isabella, still somehow resolute as before.

Charlotte sighed. “Their prejudice will break you.” Reaching out a hand to grasp Isabella’s warm wrist for just a moment, she ignored the downturn of the lady’s lips and stepped out the front door and into the night. 

It was another raucous night in the city with fires burning in every lantern and men and women alike cavorting openly in the dark corners of the streets. Perhaps halfway between St. James’s and Greek Street, she happened upon quite a scene. Several men of some wealth were arguing openly:  _ she’s mine, no she’s mine _ and Charlotte was confident she’d find her sister lurking somewhere nearby. This was clearly one of her silly games. 

And there she was, splendidly dressed and drunk on both her newfound power and what was undoubtedly expensive wine. She gestured widely at the two buffoons vying for her attention: “You must win me in a chariot race!” As Charlotte got closer, she heard Lucy exclaim: “Come on, put your cock where your mouth is! There’s a lady to be won!” The two culls took off at an awkward trot that demonstrated their lack of athleticism.

Soon enough, the games grew sillier. Lucy broke their chariot race’s tie with a dare to lick a bald man’s head. At this moment, Charlotte rounded upon her younger sister.

Lucy leaned over: “They’ve not spent enough. Not yet.” Charlotte shook her head in amusement.

“You’ll have to tup one of them in the end.” 

“Tup yourself.”

Charlotte, in good humor for once, replied: “I do.”

One idiot took the plunge and licked the man’s undoubtedly greasy scalp. Lucy taunted the winner once more before taking off at a sprint, followed by her amorous cull. Charlotte took her leave and returned to the house, smiling all the time. 

* * *

It had been an eventful night. Between her failed experiment with high society, the strange and unwanted affection that remained between herself and Isabella, and the absurdity of her sister’s humor, she resolved to put herself to bed early as possible. 

She should’ve known, though, that her own house would offer no peace on a Saturday night like this one. In the parlor arose the sounds of not one or two, but surely several men - all culls - waiting to be entertained into the rooms above them. Blinking the exhaustion from her eyes, she put on the mask she wore while fulfilling her bawd duties (one hobbled together from the one she wore as a courtesan) and entered the room. 

Each of her girls, Fanny included, was pissing drunk already and the men holding them by the waist or hand or rear were not their usual clientele. Scruffy rogues, the lot of them. Nancy was glaring at them, seemingly displeased with the night’s turn of events. Charlotte nodded at her.

“Charlotte, poke the eyes out of that cheeky dog,” Fanny said between gulps of her drink. She pointed at a smallish man, the obvious ringleader of this ragtag group, who squinting eyes took her in as one took in a stack of pound notes. He stood. 

“Is this the legendary Charlotte Wells? I’d like to buy what she sells.” 

“Don’t tell me… You’re a poet.”

The man, Issac, thought himself clever and the two exchanged some rhyming jabs at one another as he got ever closer. It had been a long time since a man had made a real pass at her, she’d nearly forgotten the small thrill that accompanied the undercurrent of displeasure. Isaac was not particularly well built. He was a little scrawny and pale. But he had the courage (reckless or otherwise) to single her out when she was tired, exhausted really, and despite herself - so very lonely. Last night’s melancholy slammed into her full force and she thought to herself  _ why not take him to my bed when he so badly wants it _ . 

She had once been the temptress of London, not Lucy. One night, one cull, it couldn’t hurt anything she thought. And so, through the fog of her own enduring dissatisfaction with her life and vacancy left in her heart where so much purpose had been, she led Isaac to her room and fucked him silly. The sex, she was surprised to find, was good. Though, she wasn’t sure whether that was because she’d gone so long without or not. He didn’t screw like rich men did and she no longer was the girl the gentry wanted anyway. Perhaps, this was exactly the kind of rutting she deserved now. 

Afterward, she lay back in her yellow chemise, momentarily sated by the transactional satisfaction. As Isaac redressed, he began some spiel about his own list to rival Harris’. Charlotte thought it ridiculous and made that known. But Isaac was no idiot. He was a snake. When he revealed himself as the greedy pimp he was, she angrily pulled on a robe and rushed into the parlor to warn the other girls. 

The bastard chased her and choked her, his men ceasing their faux flirtations to manhandle the other girls into submission. Nancy, despite her flogger, was helpless to do anything when faced with five threatening men at once. Oh, how she wished Pa were here to pummel each of their faces in, one by one. They took off with her wages leaving the girls penniless, in shock, and a sour pit of anger boiling in their stomachs. 

Morning next, Charlotte devised a half-baked and possibly reckless plan to get back her earnings and make a fool of this Isaac Pincher. She took her girls and Harriet’s down to the Saracen’s Head, a dark little watering hole on the edge of Covent Garden, and sparred once again with Isaac while one of  _ his _ girls did something of a teasing act on the bartop. Behind Isaac was his brother, Hal, a quieter and moodier man than his half-wit kin. 

Despite Emily Lacey’s warnings that the two brothers shouldn’t mess with her, Isaac saw fit to sit back like a king, letting Charlotte’s barbs roll off him like beads of water. It wasn’t until the constable, one of Fanny’s most dedicated culls who had followed them from Covent Garden to Greek Street, came in with the arrest warrant for Isaac Pincher that she saw the rogue’s face fall. He was beyond irate, furious, and cursed Charlotte’s name and home all the way to the courthouse.

Feeling prematurely victorious, Charlotte returned to Greek Street only to find Isaac’s men still posted at her door. Perhaps, this problem was not simply solved by cutting down Isaac. Hal was still operating affairs at the Saracen’s Head and his men dutifully continued to follow her brother’s original orders. Unable to operate business in her own home, Charlotte took her girls out on the town for a bit of public sport, if only to stop herself stewing for long on the current state of affairs. 

* * *

She and her girls were all over town that night, hopping from Harriet’s to Lucy’s favorite haunt to a number of nameless taverns and bars, drinking away their lingering anxiety over last night’s attack and trying to make back some of the coinage lost. At Harriet’s, Rani and the other girls had entertained their doughfaced culls with what had to be the least genuine tableau Charlotte had ever seen. Something about Cleopatra and the asp’s venomous desire, but the girls could barely keep their giggles in the entire time. The men were pleased nonetheless, most especially a particularly ugly one who Charlotte discovered was Lord Leadsom, husband of the woman she’d argued with just last night. He had eyes for Harriet only and when the two departed for a private room, Charlotte rallied her girls and took off on something of a winding, drunken adventure through the city. 

As they were stumbling their way back to Greek Street, Charlotte spotted a suspicious shadow lurking in an alleyway. While the other girls shouted and made fools of themselves in the street, Charlotte approached Isaac, looking to get one more barb, one more bit of humiliation in before she collapsed in her bed. She’d been, she realized, so  _ bored _ the past months, shackled by the new responsibilities she had to her sister, Nancy, Pa, her girls, the house, that these encounters - however unsavory her partner may be - were lighting something of a fire in her belly. However untoward she found Isaac, she could not deny the thrill that came with his apprising gaze. He wanted her still, even after she threatened his business right back. 

She hovered over him as he craned his head back against the side of the sooty, dirty house behind him. “You could’ve had all this for free,” she whispered. And it was somehow true. She was drawn to his more wretched qualities, despite her absolute distaste for them. Just as in their rutting, she knew this was what she deserved, what she was useful for. Those once lofty dreams of achieving justice, vindication, freedom - they were for naught. She would always be the girl born to an entrapped harlot, still the babe nursed on poison in Golden Square - and despite her successes, the air of peace that dominated their daily life this past year - she knew it all must come crumbling down. 

Self-destruction. It was why she’d invited Isaac into her house, her bed, and reacted now as she did. She felt his breath pick up, heard him stutter some kind of apology, and then he told her: “fly away home.” Breaking whatever spell (or curse, more like) she’d cast over the both of them, she stumbled off after her girls who were now rounding the corner of Greek Street. 

There was some commotion that dully registered and a few of the girls started screaming. Lucy’s voice came clearest, shouting for Charlotte who rushed over to find the house up in flames. 

“How has this happened? Where’s Nance?”

Fanny was sobbing, frantically searching the perimeter of the entrance for a way in through the smoke and flames. “Kitty! Kitty is in there asleep! Charlotte!” From above came the sound of Nancy breaking the upstairs window, gesturing to the growing crowd below. In her arms was baby Kitty who was wailing so loudly that her cries broke through the alarm on the street below. Using a sheet, Nancy was able to lower the baby into Fanny’s arms before disappearing back into the black sooty room. When, a minute or two later, Lucy and Charlotte realized that Nancy hadn’t fought her way out of the house yet, Lucy rushed foolishly through the front door. She found Nancy keeled over, coughing and choking on smoke at the foot of the stairs. Lucy grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to safety on the street. 

All around them, people were waking in their homes and pouring into the streets to see what was going on, but Charlotte felt a sick sense of serenity that was neither due to shock or drink.

Lucy came to her, grasping her arm tightly. “Charlotte, what do we do?” 

Charlotte shook her head. “Let it burn.” 

* * *

The fire finally went out about half an hour later, but the damage was so excessive that even the front doors were ringed by black soot. Luckily for their neighbors, the flames had not spread far. But as morning light rose on Greek Street, their house was like a black spot, a cancer on the face of an otherwise warmly lit street. Afraid of the danger that may lurk in the house, Charlotte commanded her girls to grab the few belongings they could from the front rooms and head back to Harriet’s. 

All of her culls were, by that hour, long gone and Harriet opened the door tiredly - as though pulled from a long awaited night’s rest. When she saw the sooty state of Charlotte’s gown though she quickly invited them in. Too tired and in pain to speak much more, she quickly explained what had happened and Harriet, ever sympathetic, invited Charlotte and the girls to stay with her for the time being. 

Fanny was rocking a wheezy Kitty back and forth, still crying. Rani guided her by the shoulder to one of the quieter bedrooms, offering to fetch a soft blanket for the girl. Charlotte pulled her woolen scarf off the back of Harriet’s chaise, making to leave, but Harriet grasped her wrist softly before she could.

“You need to rest,” Harriet said. 

“I need to murder Isaac Pincher. But not before I go back to my house.”

Harriet nodded. “I understand, but you cannot face all of this with no sleep and nothing to eat. Please, I insist you stay at least a few hours. Figure out your plan and then return when you have strength.” 

There was a buzzing behind Charlotte eyes, a headache borne of worry and too much rye and no sleep. Despite herself, her resolve, she allowed Harriet to guide her to the chaise. The exhaustion of the night’s events did nothing to send her to sleep and as Harriet shooed a few early morning culls away, sealing the girls into the house for some much needed rest, Charlotte stayed awake. She’d fucked Isaac and now he’d fucked her. She was sure the fire was his doing - after all he’d been snivelly and apologetic just around the corner from the scene of the crime. 

For a moment, she grieved the house, the stacks of pound notes she kept sewn into the drapes for safekeeping where certainly gone. This was the house that had cost her so much: not just the backbreaking work of the last year, but Lucy’s virginity - twice sold. It was the purchase of that house that set into motion so much pain and horror that she thought 

Despite that, it was a place where she had been happy, where she’d known some peace and real success. Her family, strewn as it was all over the map, fractured and crudely healed time and again, was inextricably linked to the walls and beams of that damned house. And now it was almost certainly gone. Even if she could make the repairs, it would never be the same.

Her mind turned and turned, first on how to exact revenge on the Pincher men and second on how to make the various repairs. Charlotte thought back to her conversation with Isabella and remembered how openly the lady flaunted her new wealth - how readily she offered it to Charlotte. She despised the idea of actually  _ asking _ the lady for anything. Part of her was unwilling to let that last thread of resentment fray and break. For if she were to entreat her help, she would surely find herself forgiving the lady entirely for her past wrongdoing. And that wrongdoing was the only thing maintaining their distance. 

The pleasant time spent over tea the other day had reminded Charlotte of the serenity she found in Isabella’s presence, how their differences - however extreme - could soothe rather than irritate. She could admit to herself, in the morning chill of Harriet’s parlor, that she was afraid of re-embracing that friendship - of what it might mean for her peace of mind. She’d striven so hard to leave the past in the past - the girl she’d thought herself to be, the one she’d been for her mother, for George, for all of London and, finally, the one she’d been for Isabella. Enough masks to populate a masquerade of her own making. And yet that last one had been so nearly honest, its lies fraying at the edges, and she’d nearly let the lady see whatever truly lie underneath - no matter how ugly or self-loathing. 

Now her hands were tied. Her house and savings were gone and she had two bloodthirsty men hounding her night and day. As Charlotte finally fell to a restless sleep, she resolved herself to a plan, some way to get back at them. If that meant having to start up this friendship with Isabella again, that was a price her poor heart would have to pay. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. you lit up that room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rewrite of Season 3, Episode 2. Much of this breezes through some parts while... lingering on others. You're welcome.

The pink dress was the first thing that caught Charlotte’s eye in her ruined bedroom. The blackened walls made the space feel like a catacomb despite the stream of steady daylight coming in through the window. Outside, the usual hubbub of Greek Street persisted with no care for the destruction that lay at her feet. 

Her face and skirt were spotted here and there with streaks of soot. A short distance away she could hear Nancy and Lucy talking in the kitchen but their voices seemed to come from across the sea, so overcome was she by the state of her home and business. Careless is as careless does: she’d brought this destruction on herself. Yes, by inviting Isaac Pincher into her bed and then by taunting him so recklessly afterward, but the origin of this mess went further back even than that. 

Pulling the dress out from where it was partially hidden, Charlotte smacked it in vain, willing away the charred silk. It was one of her last “good” gowns, the kind she’d worn in Golden Square. A bright fuschia, it was the very symbol of her supposed hold on Dame Death that the crone would let her wear something this flamboyant. She hadn’t worn it for months and months, but the sight of it crumpled and blackened cracked through the last bit of strength she had. Biting back tears, she opened the window and threw the dress out onto the street where it would no doubt be trampled by horse hooves and spotted with manure to match its burnt remains. 

She felt much the same. Whatever spitfire, meteor of the hour, luminary of London’s firmament she’d been was well and truly dead. She too was trampled low in the muck and now so was her house, the very thing she’d built up to fill the emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole. The house was her departed mother’s dream, not hers, and yet she’d stitched her sense of self into the linings of these walls along with her savings. She collapsed on the window bench and cradled her head in her hands, unable to keep the tears at bay. There was no obvious solution, nothing that could bring back the fragile peace she’d attained under this roof. 

Greek Street was relatively quiet that morning, nearly deserted save for those going about their usual business. Outside, onpassers pointed up at the blackened bricks with nothing resembling sympathy in their eyes. These merchant neighbors, those who’d found their wealth through commerce because they were born into better circumstances than them, had little true care for Charlotte’s house. The men liked to visit, sure, and the women liked to gossip - but they’d sooner see her in her grave than at their dining table. 

From down the corner came a familiar voice, jilting Charlotte into action. Pa was saying something to Jacob and another young man that she didn’t recognize. At the sight of the blackened doors and windows, he came rushing down the street, leaving Jacob and the man in his dust. 

Exhausted, Charlotte whispered, “Pa…” 

He immediately took her face in his hands, examining her for any marks beyond the surface soot and grime. Entering the kitchen, he gathered up an emotional Lucy and Charlotte into his arms as Nancy looked on. 

They spent the next hour or more half-heartedly cleaning up, but mostly seeking refuge in Pa’s stories from the fighting circuit in Yorkshire. Outside, they heard Fanny’s voice clear as day and Charlotte jumped up, hoping to check on Kitty’s health.

“You’re covered in tar!” Nancy licked her thumb and rubbed at Charlotte’s cheek. 

With Fanny was her constable, who looked up at the house in surprise.

“Found him loitering in the street,” Fanny said.

“I’d have come before if I heard. Helped put the fire out.” He puffed himself up, trying to seem useful. 

Charlotte shook her head.  _ Yeah sure _ . “You can help by putting Isaac Pincher behind bars. He’s the one that set this. You can find him at the Saracen’s Head.”

“Arson’s a heavy accusation. Did anyone see him?” 

“I did,” Charlotte said. “In this house?” 

“Just a street away.” 

“But not here,” the constable asked searchingly.

Frustrated, Charlotte gestured at the broken window. “Did that break itself? He was here!”

Fanny looked her cull hard in the eye: “Kitty nearly died. Her little chest’s still wheezing.” 

Pa nodded. “He needs to be stopped.”

The constable was steadfast. “There are many ways a fire can start.”

Charlotte bit her tongue, grabbed Pa by the wrist and dragged him along. They would go to the Saracen’s Head and put an end to this where the law would not. So many times it had failed her in the past, what good would it be now? They were lowly folk and so were their adversaries - this was perhaps a battle best won by conniving rather than laws on the books. 

* * *

Pa and Charlotte burst through the door of the Saracen’s Head with not a hint of their arrival preceding them. They were trailed by Charlotte’s girls and Fanny. “Fly away home?! That’s what you say when you set someone’s house on fire?!” Her voice was breaking, somehow betrayed by this sorry excuse for a man who’d choked her after bedding her the first time. She was more angry at herself than anything: for being hoodwinked, for believing herself more powerful than your average Covent Garden-variety pimp. 

Pa didn’t hesitate. He thrust forward with the full weight of his might, grabbing Isaac by the throat. A shifty Emily Lacey was keeping his brother at bay and Charlotte scoffed at her presence. Of course, she’d gone looking for protection from the elements and found these two sorry sacks of shite. Unfortunately, the constable had followed Fanny to the tavern.

“Stop,” he said looking at Pa and not Isaac. “I don’t want to arrest you.”

Charlotte got in Isaac’s pinched little Pincher face as he spat sad but effective lies in the eyes of the law. His brother, Hal, defended him unfailingly and Charlotte felt the last strings of her control coming undone. 

“Liars! All of them liars!” Her voice broke with the injustice of it all, but the constable could not be swayed.

“Bring me proof or let this lie.” Defeated but riled, they left.

Pa and her discussed options outside and it was only his soothing strength that kept Charlotte from running back into the tavern and murdering Isaac on the spot, from wrapping her own fingers around his pale throat. 

_ Behave yourself _ . It was sound advice and yet, Charlotte thought it unlikely that she could pull it off. She’d never been one to twiddle her thumbs and wait for the right time for anything. Rash is as rash does and Charlotte wanted her revenge soonest as possible. 

* * *

Back at Greek Street, Charlotte found Lucy scrubbing the walls, her gown spotted just like hers. 

“Lucy… I need you,” Charlotte said, throwing an arm around her sister’s shoulder. 

“I was always here,” Lucy replied, pecking her cheek. Charlotte smiled, reminded of their little schemes, their pranks on Ma and - later - Pa who took them in good humor. This was no prank, but she would need her sister’s charisma and influence to pull off what she had in mind. In the kitchen, her girls and Nancy sat drinking their sorrows away. She made some speech about Pa telling her to stand down, but her smirk belied the wisdom of his advice. When it came down to it, the girls and Lucy and Nance were in it with her - for better or for worse - and they would leave the Saracen’s Head in a different kind of disrepair. 

Together they devised a plan to get Charlotte’s money (and more) back from the halfwit Pinchers. They would enact it that afternoon. 

Outside the tavern, the girls waited for Cherry Dorrington’s signal. One had already run off after a very harried looking Emily Lacey, dragging Hal with her. Not five minutes later, there was quite a sight to be seen: Lucy in full dandy’s wear atop a white horse, trailed only by her new business partner, Miss Elizabeth Harvey, and her effeminate son, Fredo. Charlotte had her concerns with this new mollyhouse venture, but she could not deny the amusement she got out of this stunt, even apart from the task at hand. 

Not stopping to linger on the spectacle, she slipped into the Saracen’s Head unnoticed as the loitering crowd focused on Lucy instead. Inside, Harriet was playing one of Isaac and Hal’s henchman like a fiddle, while Nancy was undoubtedly sneaking around the backdoor to the cellar. When she came upon Isaac, it was all too easy to simply grab him by the collar and pretend to be raving wild to fuck him. 

It was mostly an act, but some primal part of her was getting off on this: how easily he was swayed once again to her wiles. The sad, pathetic man who had burnt down her house and then whispered an apology to her on a dark street corner could easily be swindled out of his fortune just by a flash of her teeth and skin. She got him upstairs and put on quite a little show for him, though she thought it might be a bit for herself as well. 

There was a definite physical spark between them, even as his personality so disgusted her, and perhaps that was what lit the flame in the first place. He was not doting, not really all that charming, and certainly not caring in the way anyone would want to be cared for. Isaac reminded Charlotte of a twisted version of herself, someone who could do harm, who wield those around them for gain. He reminded her of Ma, of Lydia, of those who would claim a rotting throne in this underworld while the upper classes went on despising them, hating them for the very circumstances they were born into. And for that reason and that reason alone, she fucked him without abandon - the pretend blending in with the self-destruction before giving way to numbness. 

She was still smart, though. She kept her mind’s eye on the time and prolonged his stamina long enough for Nancy to do what she must. When the deed was done and Nancy’s whistle blown, Charlotte gave him a peck on the lips which quickly devolved into a bout of necking that Charlotte repeatedly tried to pull herself away from. 

Isaac broke from what he clearly thought were tender affections to whisper an apology and that gave Charlotte pause. “Me too,” she replied as though she understood or cared about his remorse one iota. She was not sorry for stealing from him, for tricking him, but she was sorry for starting this in the first place. For letting herself dip so low so as to screw him. And with that flicker of hatred, she slipped out, the damage done and the battle won. For now.

Back at Harriet’s, she and Nancy received a sharp rebuke from Pa who warned that - of course - the Pinchers would retaliate. He took off to the Saracen’s Head in hopes of preventing violence, but not before telling her and Nancy to find some alibi, some way to prevent Isaac turning the law around on them this time. 

Nancy was the one who proposed Lady Fitz, not her. Charlotte was taken aback by that, but apparently Isabella had come looking for her twice previous, two visitations that Nancy had not yet mentioned. Something about that irritated her and she snapped back at Nance that she’d fix the problem on her own. Nancy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head at the backtalk from the child who had so rarely shown her sour wit to her face. 

“And why did you not tell me that Isabella came to see me twice? What if something was really wrong?” 

“The lady is safe, don’t fret yourself to ribbons. It’s her daughter who’s run away - that’s what she told me earlier today.” 

“What of the first visit? The night of the fire?” Nancy pressed her lips thin together. She pulled Charlotte by the shoulder out of the house and down the street and she quickly realized they were heading toward St. James’s Square. 

“Your ladyship went to see Dame Death in Bedlam. She arrived at the house with tears in her eyes, disturbed. Never thought I’d see someone with any sympathy for that witch other than her son and perhaps you, but it was plain on her face.” 

“And you thought to keep this from me? That it wasn’t worth mentioning,” Charlotte nearly yelled. 

“I’ll have you know I nearly died in a fire of your own making just a few hours later. It didn’t cross my mind to bring it up until just now.”

_ Of my own making _ . The words were cruel and of course Nance didn’t mean them the way they came off, but she was right. This was all Charlotte’s fault, all this destructive business, and now she was pulling the curtain on the third act of a play she never should’ve penned into existence in the first place. 

Nancy’s words shut her up, but they didn’t quell the nausea she felt at the first revelation: Isabella had seen Lydia again. Lydia, who had tried to take her money, her child, and get Isabella thrown into Bedlam herself, was of course still alive even if Charlotte had banished her from thought and heart. Nothing, not even the worst of tortures, could bring that crone to a heel. She could only imagine the threats Lydia would’ve made.

Several minutes of silent walking passed. “Quigley called you the lady’s succubus, you know.” Nancy cast a sidelong glance at her. Charlotte snorted. “She would, but the bitch didn’t know anything of what Isabella and I were doing beyond planning her downfall, I assure you.” 

Nancy sighed. “Frankly, I don’t think  _ you _ know exactly what you were doing with the lady beyond that. Perhaps Lydia could see that and trust that she’ll exploit it if she ever gets free.” 

Charlotte brushed the threat off. “That’s not likely, Nance. Charles is gone from London, fleeing debtor’s jail, and he’s the only one who could spring her from that hell.” 

They left it at that and walked in silence once more.

* * *

“We’re stuffed if she says no!” Nancy whispered in Charlotte’s ear as they arrived in St. James’s. “She won’t. She owes me something fierce and seems more aware of that debt than I am.” 

Charlotte said it more confidently than she felt. Isabella had indeed offered her help unconditionally, but bringing two malicious pimps into her home might be a little too much to ask. After taking the Pinchers’ money earlier that day, Charlotte had bundled her part of it up and slid it into both her pockets for safe keeping. The rest was in a sack hanging at Nancy’s hip. Charlotte was, at the very least, afraid of their immediate wrath and so had squirelled the evening away in none of her usual haunts, avoiding detection. All in the hopes that neither brother would find her before she could ask Isabella for help. 

The dutiful but ever silent footman let them in without so much as a second glance and Charlotte surmised that Isabella must have informed him to allow them entrance whenever they asked. If she weren’t so preoccupied, she might be touched by the gesture, but there was still the problem of the Pinchers and whether her former ally (friend, companion, lover,  _ whatever _ ) would follow through on her promise. 

The footman gestured into the foyer where only a few lowlit, orange lamps burned. Charlotte and Nancy cautiously entered the room where Isabella was sat at a small table, her head in her hands. In front of her was a letter that seemed to capture the entirety of her attention. It was a long second or two before she looked up. Something like surprise was on her face, less so at the sight of Nancy who she nodded at in greeting ( _ what was going on there _ Charlotte thought) and more at the sight of her. Something dropped in her stomach as she realized the lady was surprised to see her because Charlotte had been twice callous with her these past few days. 

Last year, at the height of their scheming rapport, Charlotte had made herself readily available to Isabella. Isabella, who had been so fragile, standoffish but flitting ever closer to her each time they met, chilly and yet enticing Charlotte further into her secrets, begging her to ask questions she was afraid to answer. It was not until things had turned from bad to worse - when she thought Ma hanged and Fallon strung up in Covent Garden, ripe for the picking - that she’d come up for breath from the lady. Deep waters, they’d been, and deeper still in her memory’s looking glass. Their importance to each other in such a short time was distorted now by the petulant dangers of their present. 

Isabella quarreled with society ladies, not her wretched brother, and Charlotte apparently picked fights with foul pimps. Times had changed for the better, yes, but Charlotte wished now that she could tap back into whatever force had driven her last year, whatever had compelled her onward. 

Feeling a tad remorseful, Charlotte softened her voice, hands clasped in front of her. “Isabella, is there any word of Sophia?” The lady’s lips curved and Charlotte spotted a sheen of tears in her eyes. 

“No. I have people out searching high and low for her…” Isabella paused, blinking as though coming back to herself. She looked searchingly at herself and Nancy before seeming to realize that they did not come for a drink or to catch up with an old friend. “What do you want?” She sounded resigned but not resentful, as though she would give them anything they wanted if only they would stay a few minutes longer with her in the dim empty house. 

Isabella, in a morose mood, was not usually so forgiving as Charlotte well remembered. But this version of the lady was far quieter, less self-righteous, a mere specter of the haughtiness that Charlotte had first encountered at the Blayne estate. Isabella brought them into the parlor where the mood was more contemplative than it had been the night Charlotte came for the salon or when they met that first time for tea. 

A few open books littered the table by the same chaise Isabella had sat on both times. Charlotte figured it was her favorite and the thought warmed her for a moment. Isabella had no favorites in her old home. Every time Charlotte had visited her, she’d walked gingerly, as though bruised, and Charlotte shuddered to think that bruising might’ve been more literal than not. Only a single lamp was lit in here, the one Isabella had evidently been using to read, and the entire room felt somehow like a mystery once more, the flowers and painted vines fading into the shadows of a seemingly peaceful evening spent alone.  _ Alone _ . 

Charlotte realized that, as lonely as she’d been this past year, this past life even, she’d always been  _ surrounded _ . Once, there had been a time when she wanted nothing more than to be alone. She’d shared her room with Lucy, her few toys with Lucy and Jacob, her body at her Ma’s disposal, and her time with culls a’plenty. Nancy had fewer girls than Ma and moved through the world as she so wished and Charlotte had certainly once been jealous of that agency. Even at George Howard’s house when he was away for business or petty family affairs, Haxby had slithered around corners keeping an eye on her every move. And now there were her girls at Greek Street, Nancy and Pa, Lucy from time to time. Her lonesome nature ran deeper than all that company, but - still - she had people to fill the space.

Isabella had no one. That was the truth lingering in these shadows, in the single lamp, the books whose pages seemed stamped by the lady’s roving fingerprints. Yes, she’d had her daughter this past year but that daughter had gone, left her mother at the first opportunity, and Charlotte struggled to think what Isabella could have done to make her leave. She was nothing like Margaret, the opposite, and it had been Isabella’s undying devotion to a child whose very existence sought to ruin rather than benefit her that had first pulled Charlotte into the lady’s cause and the lady into her heart.

Who did Isabella have, really, to keep her company? Some old, noble maids whose very voices she obviously abhorred (if the salon was any evidence)? The silent footman whose loyalty came with the caveat of blank service? She did not, Charlotte thought, have the balm of ignoring that gulf of loneliness, did not have the daily in and out of running her house. And with nothing to distract her from that gulf, she perhaps understood it better than Charlotte did, could reckon with its depths and shallows. Could see it for what it was and not run away from it, but come to some form of peace with it. 

Nancy took a seat across from Isabella as the footman came in to light more lamps. Charlotte shook herself from her reverie and took the seat between. They had a favor to ask and Charlotte could not forget that now in favor of all this rumination. 

“I do hope you can forgive this imposition,” Charlotte started and the recall of the words brought a smile to Isabella’s lips. 

“Of course,” Isabella replied, just the same but not, leaning back against the chaise lethargically, a move most unladylike. It was late, evidently, and Isabella’s stays and large skirts were starting to bother her. Feeling another twinge of regret, Charlotte meant to continue but Nancy beat her to it.

“I told you earlier about those Pincher boys. Well, we’ve exacted something of an elaborate revenge on them in their own tavern, stripped them of their savings and taken it as our own. And now they’re on the rampage once again, seeking to ruin Charlotte at the first opportunity, likely to murder her if the law won’t.” 

Charlotte frowned. Nance had said the two had simply talked about Sophia, not about her problems. The fire would’ve been an obvious sign, but Charlotte wished that Nancy had said something else or let her explain instead. Miffed at the exclusion and confused by this newfound friendship between the two women, Charlotte interjected: “I’m in need of an alibi. It’s very well that we got away with the money, but if no one can vouch for my whereabouts elsewhere this afternoon then I might find myself facing the jail. Or worse.” 

“And who better to vouch for your whereabouts than me, a spinster known for enticing pitying souls to my home for a game of hazard?” Charlotte smiled. She liked this humor, however self-deprecating, from Isabella and hoped to see more of it. 

“You’re hardly a spinster.” Charlotte looked her over appraisingly. Isabella was tired, drawn from her grief over Sophia, but it did nothing to dull the effect she had on Charlotte. She wore another pink gown, this one more ruby than vermillion, and red jewels glittered on her neck and from her ears. Her hair was done up in a more conservative style than Charlotte was used to seeing her wear, closer to the crown of her head, with a ruby-encrusted pin sticking just so out from the back. Isabella had the gall to blush and Nancy made an irritated noise in the back of her throat, impatient. 

“And anyway,“ Charlotte went on, “I’ve been seen here before, twice I’m sure, to the scandal of your entire neighborhood. So it would indeed be believable that I might pay you a visit for a game of cards. Though, perhaps not hazard, considering your past gambling debts.” Charlotte winked.

At that, Isabella laughed, a full body-shaking laugh that Charlotte had never witnessed before. Nancy, rather than unnerved by the lady’s behavior, just looked bemusedly between the two of them before shaking her head. As the humor drained slowly from Isabella’s face, she said, “Of course. Very well then, you have your alibi from my lips to the law.” 

The three of them stood up and walked into the dining room, taking seats around the long table. They waited and not five minutes later there was a knock at the door. The footman brought Isaac, Hal, and Will into the room, offering both a seat but nothing to drink. They stood awkwardly instead, the duo of brothers, in the entryway as Pa drifted over to Charlotte’s side. 

“What’s this charade? Where’s our money,” Isaac barked and Charlotte couldn’t help but find him even more pathetic than before. Just hours earlier he’d been trying to charm her with some sentimentality all while Nancy was robbing him blind. Hal was far more the wild card and his stony expression made Charlotte more nervous than any of Isaac’s flamboyant flourishes of anger. That brother, she could deal with, one way or another.

“What makes you think we have it?” Charlotte barely feigned confusion, a smirk at the corners of her mouth to signal Isaac in on her little joke. He made to lunge forward. “Give it back,” he threatened before Pa interrupted him and his brother held him back by his shoulder.

“I’m warning you.” Charlotte scoffed.

“You’re warning me and accusing me! I do hope you have proof.”

“Don’t play this game with me.”

Charlotte looked down, ready to play her hand. “Where was I this afternoon,” she asked.

“Here taking tea.” 

Both brothers directed their attention to Isabella for the first time and Charlotte felt an immediate pang of regret for bringing her into this, despite how well her plan was working out thus far. She didn’t like their eyes on her, them knowing her at all. In fact, the whole situation should very well be impossible - that two men the likes of these should ever meet a lady like Isabella would not normally come to pass. 

Isabella held her head high though, that haughty chin aloft and reminding Charlotte briefly of the lady she’d first met last year. This time, it was an entirely different act and some of that new power derived from honesty was in her dove-like voice. 

“Do you have any witnesses,” Pa asked the brothers, tauntingly. Her cue.

“Well, this fine -” Charlotte gestured across the table to Isabella, “- lady who I played hazard with.” Isabella kept her hands folded calmly in front of her but she could see some of that earlier humor in her eyes.  _ Hazard indeed _ . Getting up, she stroked the stoic footman’s cheek. “And this fine gentleman, he’d be happy to say.” Charlotte knew of his loyalty to Isabella, though she struggled to imagine the footman saying much of anything at all. No matter. 

“Enough,” Isaac bit out, the game evidently won. Charlotte waltzed back around the table, ready to deliver the final blow, but she was interceded by Isabella who, as yet, had sat by watching the entire exchange. 

“Not yet,” she said, standing tall over everyone else in the room, save Hal. “Who opened the doors of my house to you?” This was not planned. Charlotte stood back and watched the lady appreciatively, glad for her newfound reckless streak. Isabella continued.

“None of my men can recall doing so. How did you get in?” Charlotte caught on then, though Isaac and Hal were looking at Isabella as though she were soft in the head.

“You mean they broke in? Oh dear… That’s another crime to add to the list.” 

Pa clicked his tongue in agreement. “Seems your luck’s run out,” Nancy added, taking the seat Charlotte had vacated, wielding the sack of pound notes. 

“Here are my terms: you can have your dirty money, less what you owe me. I rebuild my house, you leave this one, and you never come near me or my girls or my family ever again.” She felt herself building up toward something, losing the cool she’d kept this entire time, practically snatching the money out of Nancy’s offering hand. 

“Or I will watch and smile as you swing for your crimes,” this she directed at Hal, who seemed the more logical one of the two. Unable to resist one last dig, she got into Isaac’s face. “Now  _ fly away home _ .” And like that, the deed was done, the money recovered. The footman saw the both of them out of the house and down the street. The high from it all dwindled as she, Pa, Nancy, and Isabella shared a drink together. For some perverse reason, Charlotte wished the fight could’ve gone on longer. 

* * *

Nancy and Pa left dutifully after a single drink, feigning tiredness and business to attend to, but they did not beckon Charlotte to accompany them out. With them, they took Charlotte share of the recovered funds and Pa promised to protect the money from the likes of the Pinchers while Charlotte was  _ busy _ . With nothing more than a couple obvious side glances, they departed without Charlotte, leaving her and Isabella alone in the dark corridor running along the back of the house. 

They were awkward for a moment - as though without a plan or scheme lying between them they had no idea what to talk about. Charlotte struggled to think of a way to say thank you, to express the relief she felt that someone like Isabella was truly in her corner, but something in Isabella’s enduring stare gave her pause. There was no doubt from their previous two interactions of late that Isabella still wanted Charlotte, desired her for - at the very least - what she could offer in the bedroom (what she had offered once, so willingly). Perhaps that was the thanks she wanted, needed, a kind of repayment. But the way Isabella looked at her now was not something Charlotte could’ve predicted, not the gaze of a mere cull or even a solicitous friend. 

Eyes soft, lidded from the long day or otherwise, and inarguably affectionate, Isabella seemed to drink her fill of Charlotte for a long minute. Gone was the exhaustion and sadness that had greeted them earlier tonight, replaced by an indigo tint of desire in Isabella’s usually crystal blue eyes. Despite the obvious intonation of her stare, Isabella said nothing. She reached up to her own hair and pulled out the ornament, which Charlotte now saw resembled a fan or peacock feathers, from her hair. 

“A memento of your triumph.” Isabella’s voice was so sweet and silken, Charlotte felt it ache somewhere deep and hollow in her chest. “You lit up that room.” 

Tentative, Isabella held the pin out to her. Rather than grasp it, Charlotte cupped her hands under Isabella’s larger, warm ones, letting her fingers drag over the soft skin.  _ Lady’s hands, smooth as can be _ . They were unworked hands, hands that never dipped into boiling water to scrub or scour nor overly moisturized for the taste of culls. Dry, warm, soft. 

Charlotte often forgot their height difference. Though Isabella stood several inches above her, Charlotte had always been the leader in their little dance, the more dominating one of the two of them when it came to both the bedroom and the plan for justice. But now, with even the smallest gesture, she felt herself taking in the commanding, feminine presence of this new woman. A woman, forced by the will of her brother to perform as the perfect scioness of the London aristocracy, who undoubtedly had a power all her own as she displayed tonight. One that even Charlotte underestimated. That much was clear from how bravely she’d claimed her bastard daughter in the eyes of the same society she’d once catered to and from her willingness to defend a harlot and her family from conniving villains. It was that extra step, the part where Isabella threatened the Pinchers on her own terms, not just Charlotte’s, that came to mind as they stood staring into each other’s eyes. Her cheeks warmed at the thought, slightly uncomfortable with the prolonged attention. 

To say that Charlotte was touched by the token would not be quite accurate, but some part of her adored it - the intimacy of one woman giving another an accessory. Male keepers were all the same, proffering gowns and jewels a’plenty, but having no real understanding of what these tokens meant to a woman beyond their monetary worth. This was no flashy gift - in fact, it was technically second hand - but something more priceless altogether. The metal pin was warm where Isabella’s hands had cradled it and no doubt from the proximity of her skin and hair. 

Isabella swayed forward just a hair, but the moment was interrupted by the footman who entered and exited quickly with a letter for Isabella. They rapidly pulled their hands from each other’s upon his arrival and Charlotte grinned to herself as she placed the pin in her hair for its own kind of safe-keeping. Watching cautiously as Isabella opened the letter, Charlotte waited for some reaction - good or bad. 

“Is it good news?” 

“It is -,” Isabella tipped her head, “- news. Sophia is married...” And surprising Charlotte further that night, Isabella smiled ruefully at the letter. She knew the lady could not be happy with the turn of events, her daughter’s selection of a servant rather than some minor young lord or baronet, but she was happy for her nonetheless. 

“To the footman.” Isabella looked up at her, tone suddenly serious.

Charlotte held back a smile, amused by Isabella’s quandary over whether her daughter had found fortune or misfortune in this marriage. 

“Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.” 

Isabella looked down at the letter. “She says she’s happy.” And a note of her earlier sorrow entered her voice, a kind of shadow of that earlier mood drifting over her face from her undereye circles to the hollows below her cheekbones. 

If only to reassure, because she could not keep herself from wanting to comfort Isabella, Charlotte grasped Isabella’s wrist and said, “She’s in love. She’s rich beyond all our dreams.” It was as though Isabella’s melancholy had cast its spell over her as well. She’d said it to make Isabella feel better, but the words seemed less concerned with Sophia than herself and - by extension - the woman standing in front of her. 

The truth, self-evident in her otherwise comforting words, would cast a light on their shared and individual loneliness. What drove her to these new and useless quarrels with pimps, what led Isaac Pincher beneath her skirts now twice, was somehow the same thing that kept Isabella chained to this new (albeit beautiful) home, alone and with no one to talk to. Loneliness. A poverty of heart that ran deeper than one’s coffers.  _ Rich woman, poor woman, each of us an unrepentant thief _ Charlotte thought and yet neither had the strength to steal when it counted: to take something for themselves. 

Charlotte had thought Isabella selfish last year, but saving her daughter by all means necessary, only to let her go when the time came, seemed to her to be the most selfless thing she could do. 

An escape that Ma had never allowed her or Lucy; she’d dug her claws into the both of them whether out of love, need, or possession, never to let them free. 

It was clear that Isabella took her words to heart, looking up briefly in some expression that might have been defeat, before inhaling deeply. She seemed to steel herself against emotion or desire (possibly both) for a moment, then reached out a quick and steady hand. Charlotte smiled. This was more familiar territory at last, less of the beguiling emotion and more of the raw desire that remained between them. She knew this was Isabella’s intention all along, that she was desirous of her still, had grown even more so over the year passing, but she was still pleasantly surprised by the lady’s forwardness. Again, their difference in height struck her, just for a moment, as she was swept into Isabella’s arms. 

The hand holding Sophia’s letter landed gently but assuredly on the back of her head, while the other arm wrapped around her back. Isabella’s fingers dug into the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades and even the layers of fabric could not stifle Charlotte’s instinctual reaction which was to swoon (just a little), craning upward in search of  _ more _ . 

Her own hands ran up Isabella’s back, one cradling the back of her neck and the other sweeping down to her padded hip. Distantly, as though it were happening on another continent entirely, she heard Sophia’s letter flutter to the floor. It was quiet as it had been all night in the house except for Isabella’s breathless sigh as they pulled each other closer, as though she’d been aching to do this for longer than Charlotte could ever hope to realize. 

The palm against Charlotte’s back was not content to stay there and with some of that commanding power that had so surprised her earlier, Isabella pulled back just a breath, lips hovering close to her own but not touching for just a second, before she grasped both sides of Charlotte’s head, pulling her mouth more insistently against her own. Those lips opened and behind them was a hint of teeth and then Isabella’s tongue which had, itself, also thrown caution to the wind. 

Charlotte welcomed the lady’s fervor eagerly, heating more than she’d care to admit under her persuasive and tender affections. She had not been kissed like this in a long time. This  _ thing _ with Isaac was physical. If she found his pathetic little games amusing, that was a stroke of self-loathing on her part, appeasing to the part of her that was easily bored, not real appreciation born of any similarity beyond the lowliness of their underhanded deeds and station. 

This was something else entirely and completely unexpected. Charlotte knew she was attracted to Isabella, had been since the first night they met. It wasn’t the attraction or how beautiful she was that scared her now. Their night together had been fulfilling and, perhaps, a touch confusing for Charlotte who had screwed without pay only a handful of times, but she’d wrapped it up neatly in her head as a gift - something she could offer so easily and freely that Isabella had been deprived of her entire life. 

It was, perhaps, a tad reckless to be kissing like this so openly in the hallway. But the footman, silent as he was, was nowhere to be found, having disappeared to another part of the house. Still, feeling exposed, Charlotte made to push the two of them through the door behind them. Isabella let herself be led, opening the door before shoving Charlotte back against it. This was a lady’s version of roughhousing, still polite, and Isabella paused to be sure Charlotte was not disgruntled by the move before leaning down again. 

Such care and consideration was uncommon in men. She had perhaps known one or two exceptions - certainly Daniel came to mind - but this dance was one that only two women could perform. And even then, there was a gentleness at Isabella’s core. It defined her: the swan like gait, the hesitation before speaking, and the careful hands. Though, they were decidedly less careful now as she grasped at Charlotte’s hips, pinning her to the door. 

Charlotte was surrounded by the lady, by her skirts which flowed like tidal waves onto hers with every push or pull, the smell of her perfume, her arms which moved from her hips up again to her face. The grasping tenderness with which she commanded Charlotte’s body to her attention. Some of that lethargy from earlier, the way she’d leaned unladylike against the chaise, was here transmuted into languid strokes of tongue and hands along a neck. She did not feel she was being devoured, but savored, by the slow building intensity of the encounter. 

This room was pitch dark, the lamps not yet lit, but in the glow of moonlight she could make out a drawing table, a vanity and mirror, some books and paintings on the wall and a bed. The walls were dark in color, a deep green, and - as Isabella leaned down to suck at her neck - a dressing gown was laid neatly at the foot of the bed. 

_ This is Isabella’s room _ . The thought jolted her slightly and she felt Isabella retreat from the crook of her shoulder, but desire burned fierce in the pit of her stomach. Overwhelmed as she might be by her own response, she was in no hurry to let this get away. When Isabella pulled back, she went with her, kissing her fervently until they reached the foot of the bed. 

She laid the lady back against the sheets and Isabella’s body went soft and supine underneath her, but with none of the trembling nerves from the first night they slept together. Still, Charlotte moved slowly so as not to spook her. It was so much harder with two sets of skirts, but she pulled one leg over both of Isabella’s and situated herself atop her hips, letting her weight press them intimately together. Even through the voluminous fabrics, something baser bloomed at that touch and, going against every instinct to rush through this - just as she would with a cull or Isaac even - she slowly lowered her face back down to Isabella’s. 

Isabella was breathing deeply but heavily below her, running eager hands up Charlotte’s torso and ghosting over her chest then back down. Her eyes were dark and searching as she gazed up at Charlotte, flicking from her face down her body and then back up again. Frustrated, she tugged at her skirts, and Charlotte echoed that frustration by leaning down and kissing her deeply. She too wanted these gowns and stays off. It was not usually necessary to undress for this occasion, not preferable if one was in a hurry and a man could simply lift a woman’s skirts and get to it. But they were two ladies and they were in Isabella’s bedroom where it seemed only fitting that they undress. Charlotte could not stand the thought of breaking this off for long enough to undress them both, though. If Isabella had been the needy one in the hallway, suddenly their roles were once again reversed. 

Charlotte dragged her lips messily down Isabella’s neck to the bare skin above her breasts. Shifting carefully, she moved from straddling Isabella’s hips to lying astride one of her legs, letting the fall weight of her knee press against the lady’s center through her many skirts. Isabella gasped, running her hands through the bit of hair that had come free from Charlotte’s styling and pulling at the back of her neck. She made to move further downward and lift those skirts so that she might get another taste of what lay beneath, but Isabella tugged her back up, pulling her weight against her fully. 

The strength finally went out of Charlotte’s arms, which had been holding her up before, and the length of her rested atop Isabella comfortably. Snug but unsatisfied, she nipped at Isabella’s jaw before being pulled back into another kiss. Now,  _ this _ was necking. They went at it for what felt like hours and each time she moved away, Isabella pulled her greedily back. Unlike earlier when she’d recoiled from what Isaac surely thought was post-coital affection, she let herself be engulfed, kissed until heady with desire and then submerged again by the intimacy of this encounter. 

There was a sensation of drowning, that the very essence of Isabella, the melancholy and the gentleness and even that original frostiness - qualities that somehow became clearer to her the more they kissed - would pull down her high ramparts, wash away what remained of her old defenses. Isabella had never played her little games, never fallen for the charm she flaunted to get what she wanted out of men for profit or gratification or otherwise. 

Despite the ache between her legs and the enduring temptation of what hid under Isabella’s skirts, she slowed against her will to match Isabella’s languid tempo. They were still unbearably dressed but where their skin met - chest to chest, face to face - was all heat. Desirous though she now was, their kissing calmed, lulling Charlotte into a kind of tender trance. Who knew one could be so exhausted from just kissing? It was a sleepiness different to the one she sometimes could access after a particularly athletic cull. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness in Isabella’s room and, looking down at the lady for a moment, she saw her eyes closed, lips still angled up toward hers. 

How oddly serene it was, to pass the time like this instead of salons and taking tea. It was much preferable to Charlotte who felt most at odds with Isabella when put through the trials of her elevated class. The lady, in this room, seemed to her more real than ever, a picture of peace lying prostrate underneath her. She could very well fall asleep like this and Isabella would let her. But a nap was not repayment, not a reward, not even a gift. Hadn’t that been why she started all this, why she let Isabella bring her into this room (or was it the other way around)? 

A hand rose to cup her cheek. Isabella’s eyes were open now and looking searchingly into hers - seeking what Charlotte could not be sure. “What troubles you, Charlotte?” 

She shuddered a breath. “It’s no matter. You do not deserve my melancholic moods, especially not after how you saved us tonight.” 

“It’s not about what I deserve,” Isabella said. “I’m not sure I deserve much anyway and certainly not from you.” She paused. “Tell me…”

Charlotte could not bear the direct question, what was half-hidden in Nancy and Pa’s concerned stares. What Lucy noticed but would not comment on for the sake of Charlotte’s pride. In the dark there was no hiding the sadness that lingered beneath her careful artifice. Scared of breaking, she tucked her head back into Isabella’s neck pressing soft kisses up to her ear. 

“Nothing troubles me so much as your state of overdress,” whispered Charlotte, letting her breath run hot over Isabella’s blushing cheek, but her energy for sport was extinguished. The lady swallowed hard but again angled Charlotte’s head so that they were face to face. She said nothing, waiting. 

Charlotte sighed. “I’m worried I guess.” 

“Hasn’t the battle been won tonight?”

“Not about that. About…” Charlotte trailed off. She didn’t want to unveil her personal crisis to Isabella, not when it had in part to do with their relationship being brought back to life. “It’s about you and Lydia.”

Isabella’s brows rose, seemingly surprised by this answer. “So Nancy told you then.” 

“Why did you tell her in the first place?”

“Because you were not there.” 

There was no bite to Isabella’s words, no accusation, just a tinge of that same sadness. This made Charlotte feel worse for her petty squabbling, for her insistence that Lydia and all of that sorry business was behind them when it so clearly still haunted Isabella. 

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. Isabella smiled. “Don’t be. You’re here now.” In a moment of reprieve or weakness or possibly both, Charlotte laid her head down against Isabella’s chest. Above all, she was exhausted. It was now definitively late and she had a house to rebuild and girls to care for, but she would much rather stay here awhile longer if even just to listen to Isabella’s even breathing. 

“Why did you go to see her?”

“Because I had to see what destruction my brother almost wrought on me. And because I thought she might somehow be behind the gossip about me in the papers. It was an impossibility. She was haggard and close to starved, raving mad at me about how she would get her revenge. Someday. I never thought I’d feel pity for Lydia Quigley but -”

Charlotte interrupted. “Then don’t! She would sooner see the both of us hanged than offer us any manner of sympathy. There’s no cure for her illness, it’s wickedness not insanity that plagues her. I’ve forgotten that vampire and I’d advise you to do the same.” 

Isabella seemed surprised at her fervor, so much so that she merely nodded and let it lie. Ashamed at her outburst, Charlotte pulled herself up to look at the clock ticking to the right of the bed. It was well after midnight. She disentangled her legs and arms from Isabella’s and thought she felt some resistance from the other woman for a moment before she went lax, watching Charlotte smooth out her skirts and hair.

“I must go. There’s a house to scrape soot off of and culls’ money to be taken.” Afraid to reinstigate the intimacy of before, Charlotte swept to the door. 

“I wish you’d stay.” 

Her hand froze on the doorknob. It was the worst thing Isabella could say at the worst time. After all this sentiment tonight and their newfound alliance, Charlotte couldn’t stand to hear her ask something so simple, something that she could so easily and even happily offer. It wasn’t a solicitation. Isabella simply wanted her to stay because she wanted her company; because she was lonely and missed her daughter and missed Charlotte. And though loathe to admit it to anyone, especially Isabella, Charlotte missed her too. But she wasn’t ready to act on that. 

“I can’t tonight. So please don’t ask again. But soon. I promise if you ask again, I will sometime soon.” 

She heard Isabella sigh behind her and before the temptation could lay itself bare again, Charlotte let herself out of the room and house. 

* * *

Charlotte cursed the turn of events - how Isabella could tempt her into the absolute last conversation she wanted to have was beyond her. It would’ve been much easier if she could’ve just evened the score, gotten Isabella off (perhaps enjoyed it more than she should), and gone home with the scales weighted once again in her favor, her sense of self as heartless reinforced. The unapologetic affection, the kindness, it made her feel worse not better: it was uncharted territory, this honesty with Isabella, somewhere her stony heart should not have led her astray. 

As if to drive that point home, she spotted Isaac Pincher lurking across from Isabella’s house. Far enough away that no one would spot him but Charlotte who was headed in that direction anyway. Not bothering to ask what he was doing here still, some hours later, and seeing the smirk on his face that said he knew exactly what she was up to in Lady Fitzwilliam’s house (though he’d be wrong this once), she tilted her chin coyly at him. 

She was, after all, unsatisfied in more ways than one. Confused and left vulnerable by her time with Isabella, Charlotte tried not to dwell on the encounter. She did, however, let the simmering desire in her belly that had been twisted by the complexities of her history with Isabella, come back to a head. Taking Isaac loosely by the arm, she led him into the dark streets of London where she’d find herself the quick screw she needed. 

After all, this was an itch she could scratch without worrying about hurting anyone other than herself. She did not care how Isaac felt. She did not care how  _ she _ felt about it. As long as Isabella and the others never found out, it could be remain harmless. Acting on instinct, she let him push her against a brick wall and gave herself up to her worst impulses gladly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know. I hate having her sleep with Isaac as well but I do think I can make it serve a real purpose to her character rather than just being obnoxious and nonsensical.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm handling the Charlotte/Isaac crap as a sort of self-destructive instinct on Charlotte's part which I think is 1) in character and 2) more compelling than her just randomly being into him because they're both uh... clever? Anyway, Episode 2 soon as I can. Please comment if the fancy tickles you.


End file.
